IN OTHER PLACES

december I fired up
the car and
found
that to the south
lay groves
that winter had not
picked her teeth upon.

I found this other thing,
you know.
her finger slumps
against my teeth
like a peach’s
fertile arch;

the white smell
of her thighs
is the fat harvest
I have deserved.

since leaving
I have learned droves
regarding peaches—
discerning those
fraught with sweetness
from those
which are already
spoiled.

she is
why
I do not remember you.

A sledge where my heart was.